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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26210857">Mr Monocle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daantjie_fanatics/pseuds/Daantjie_fanatics'>Daantjie_fanatics</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Hurt Number Five | The Boy, Luther Hargreeves Being an Asshole, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Whump, Number Five | The Boy in a Teenage Body, Number Five | The Boy-centric, The Umbrella Academy (TV) Spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:40:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,002</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26210857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daantjie_fanatics/pseuds/Daantjie_fanatics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s day 208. And Five really wished he could stop counting.</p><p> </p><p>- Basically I saw a tiktok where Five was redrawn like the comics and he had a monocle (can’t remember the username sorry) and the opportunity was just too precious to pass up...</p><p>Also apocalypse whump content</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>106</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mr Monocle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Because I’m such a nerd I actually calculated what day Five went missing based on the Apocalypse and what Pogo said. If anyone’s curious, it was October 7th 2002 - barely a week after his 13th birthday.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s day 208. And Five really wished he could stop counting.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ever since he’d travelled from October 2002 to August 5 years later and so forth to the apocalypse, he’d held an unavoidable clock in his head. It had ticked migraines into his skull for weeks and months after he landed, and he’d struggled to grasp his sanity securely. Now it felt like a gut feeling, a weird type of deja vu he couldn’t quite shake but learnt to get by with it in the background.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not like constantly knowing the time and date meant anything to him. Every day was the same, every week held at least one minor catastrophe, every month things settled a little more. Hope had run out fast. But worry had not; worry for his family who he’d buried the first day, but if he could make time relative to him, their deaths could be prevented. This was not hope by any means. But it was a motive.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That day itself was one that held another natural disaster, the second that week - maybe he should celebrate for whichever god in hell was getting their way. Far off, Five had noticed the beginnings of a storm. He’d never learnt the particular signs, but he was becoming familiar. He began to prepare, tautly wrapping his wagon of few essentials with a scrap of tarp that might have once been part of a circus tent, and pushed everything into something that looked like the corner of a room. What he really needed was shelter, a sturdy one. But what he had was two walls, thick and ill-fitting clothing, and Dolores. He pulled his scarf over half his face, with a woollen hat and something he thought could be welding goggles of some description. It was not nearly cold enough for anything to be comfortable, but he’d learnt early on it’s either inescapable sweating or sunburn, sunstroke and unclean-able ash that coated exposed skin.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The clouds had not only grown darker and closer, but had began spinning. Like some twisted funfair ride, the knotted mass of dark thunder descended ground-wards. It’s figure wrenched forwards aggressively as if trying to stagger directly for the hunched 13-year-old. Five braced himself, covering Dolores’ already beaten body from most of the impact, hugging her tightly. He was fucking terrified, but he’d always put her needs before his own, and so would she when he’d listen.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Five had woken, his few belongings were straggled amongst the now more finely ground rubble. He’d managed to keep hold of Dolores but not with no consequence to himself. The left lens of goggles had come loose, his eye was filled with scorching ash and chemical. He gritted his teeth and searched desperately for his water, anything to help the burning. It would cost him being a little dehydrated later, but when he found it he poured it over his face. It eased a little, but he thought it smart not to try opening it for now. And what a sick gesture it was, having a prosthetic eye in his pocket since he’d landed - like some almighty bitch was mumbling a great ‘I told you so’. He almost had the nerve to throw it at the sky.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then he remembered in whose hand he’d found it.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*~*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Day 310. It had taken a surprising two weeks before Five could keep his eye open without his reflexes closing it. It still stung but at least he no longer worried about infection and losing it.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a month, his eye served no problems, except a blurriness most prominent when reading. Five had never been to an optician, and it wasn’t like there were any around now to give him a prescription, but he was sure all he needed was glasses.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dolores had asked Five for a view a few days ago. He couldn’t possibly refuse her. So in the throes of summer, Five wheeled her across the city. Beauty was a thing practically impossible to find in his wasteland, but he tried for the next best thing. A huge river pooled in front of him, not incredibly clean he admitted, but fish no longer floated on top so it was almost as it had been before. Across the water there was supposed to be a magnificent skyline of glass buildings that reflected the sunset and lit up the night, and, well, they weren’t completely obliterated. The steel pillars still stood, even if all the glass had shattered, and they twisted over at the top from whatever incredible heat had turned the Earth this way, looking like abstract art pieces. The sun peaked through each gap between floors, highlighting Dolores’ new sequin top brilliantly. She said it looked like a testament to humanity. With Five’s unbalanced eyesight, it looked like a graveyard. He dropped to his knees, suddenly feeling sick.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The concrete was hot and grated his palms, but it served well enough to steady him whilst he convinced himself he didn’t need to vomit.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His eye was caught by some thrust of light. He tried to see where it had come from. He blinked to and fro. A shard or mirror of some kind was half under water, but more than that, it was framed. He crawled forward towards it, lifting it out. Delicate, he studied it with his good eye. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A monocle, he thought. That’s what it was. The chance was slight, that he come across it here, basically undamaged. It looked like gold, with shatter-proof glass - pretty industrial strength for it to be the only bullet-proof glass not currently sand underneath his boots. Taken in by this curious spectacle, Five put it to his eye. And then he saw, actually saw the definite line light rays made cutting through the rusted ruins across the curling water. Everything moved, independent of each other even when everything was dead.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dolores.” Five’s eyes watered refreshing and painful and it blurred everything again. “I can see it.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He traced the edge of glass and gold, the last survivor, now found for purpose again - as he hoped also to be. He saw Dolores’ face.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s beautiful.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*~*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was March 24th, Five was sure he’d known. But he’d had to ask anyway. The counting deep in his conscious had changed and he hadn’t yet known whether he could trust it, the difference was simple: now it was counting down. Down in hours and minutes and days until the end of everything, present as an itch beneath his fingernails and heat behind his eyes. Or maybe those were symptoms of something else entirely— it didn’t matter, he knew it was March 24th and that he had to save his family by April 1st.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And my my, he didn’t remember his family asking so many questions. He did remember the speed with which they got offended, however. Five had barely said anything dishonest, and Diego was already out of his seat. He was glad, however, that they seemed to be falling into old habits, that Five might be able to fit back into the family after 45 long years (not counting his scattered months at commission). His peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich was proof enough of that, he supposed.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Five remembered having a soft spot for Vanya, so he withheld insulting her curiosity,</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait, how does that even work?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dolores kept saying the equations were off.” Five furrowed his brows slightly, putting down his sandwich for a moment. In one fluid movement, Five pulled his battered copy of ‘Extra-ordinary: My Life as Number Seven’ out of his pocket with his right hand, and brought the monocle to his eye with his left. He didn’t catch the shifty glances at the book he held, having expected it to have caused dramatic reactions from his siblings from the moment he’d first found it.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bet she’s laughing now; I’ve found my mistake. A simple decimal misplacement, what a kick in the teeth.” Five threw the book down irritatedly.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Woah there, Mr Monocle!” Klaus giggled, dragging back up the nickname they’d used for their Dad all those years ago. Five decided he was not going to mention how closely he’d resembled Reginald when his beard had started to silver, how he’d grown his hair long and avoided reflective surfaces a good portion of his life once he’d made that exact connection.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pulled the monocle off his face, realising “Well, I guess there isn’t any use for this now that I’m 13 again.” He threw it down and bit into his sandwich. Small victories.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But-“ Luther looked closely at the circle of glass. “This was Dad’s”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can’t be.” Diego said resolutely. “Stop trying to pin Dad’s death on all of us, Five wasn’t even here until a few minutes ago!”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s not what I was-“</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s exactly what you were doing Luther, don’t try to pretend.” Diego was obviously fuming from some previous ordeal. Five could remember this from his childhood.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought it was heart failure.” Five might be misremembering, but he was sure it said something about it in some corner of that newspaper in the apocalypse. Spotting Reginald’s face on another paper on the table, Five scanned the cover. He’d remembered right. But,</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We don’t know for sure...” Luther began. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Allison threw her hands in the air. Five’s eyebrows knitted again.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine! Luther, you want to know if that’s Dad’s monocle.” Diego pulled a monocle from his pocket and slammed it hard on the table. “It can’t be because this is Dad’s monocle.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Klaus looked more lost than ever.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Luther squared up to Diego. “What did you do?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“I didn’t kill Dad, if that’s what you’re really asking.” Diego retorted hostilely. “Mom had it - to clean it. So I took it because I </span> <span class="s2"> <em>knew</em> </span> <span class="s1"> you’d point fingers, just like you’re doing now.”</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But Mom...” Luther tried to bring up a response. Five had half the mind to walk out of there, it was just the circle of life why did they care about it so much, they’d all be dead in a week anyway.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Um, guys-“ Klaus began, he’d been wearing both monocles at the same time to cheer up Vanya and was now turning them over in his hands.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not now Klaus!” Diego and Luther shushed in unison.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Klaus persisted, “it’s just that these are the same.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Five turned around, re-entering the room. “What.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They’re exactly the same.” Klaus passed them to Five, taking his sandwich in exchange.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Five turned them both over, a heavy feeling in his stomach. Had he been wearing Reginald’s monocle the whole time, in doing so admitted he’d required his Dad’s help in the apocalypse. No. He stole it, he took it from a corpse and repurposed it. He refused to think about it another way. On the other hand, “It would explain how it survived. He wore one strong enough to withstand our powers.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Five gathered some temporal energy; not the same as time travelling, just activated a way to sense a paradox. His fingertips fizzed a little. “They’re the same, mine was from the future. Obviously.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He put them down and rummaged through his pockets, finding the many tourist maps he’d picked up wherever he went, crude illustrations scattered across them to signal food or shelter or medication where found or depleted. “Don’t tell me,” Five found the particular spot on the map and pointed to it. “This is where you were planning on getting rid of it.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Diego looked over at it. “Yes- how could you possibly...”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What part of the future do you not understand? That’s where I found it, or will find it. You need to remember to leave it there, just in case. It helped.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Luther looked dumbfounded that the conversation had moved on, “wait, no. Guys this isn’t the point: Diego-“</span>
</p><p class="p2"><br/>Diego took his leave in a huff, monocle in pocket.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m getting changed.” Five rolled his eyes and grabbed his sandwich on his way out, mumbling “Probably into something less suitable for my age.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Apologies for any spelling errors, I went back and forth trying to figure out how to spell Dolores. Turns out it’s Dolores literally everywhere (comics, Wiki, it’s just how you spell it)- except the subtitles where it’s Delores.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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